#131 We think of it as perfect, Standing there so tall. But it's merely another living thing, No more, that's it, that's all. Our hands, they taunt and tease it, We study it's great status. But it's the small things we overlook, That it's so largely like us. Our life is like a rose, It's so complex in its way. Closing up by night, Showing our beauty by the day. Some have it easy, Life bread without the thorns. Others they snag the stem, And bleeding apart they're torn. Some get picked too early, And waste away and die. Others are chosen to live, And continue to grow so high. Sooner or later than others, We will all reach the within. The soft, sweet center of ourselves, And just maybe we'll bloom again.
Reason for writing:
Just was thinking during science class about life
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Nightmare³.